Anchorless
by DrowningHeta
Summary: Re-kicked into action. Trashy chapter replaced. It is strange times for our nations normally, but even stranger now. Something big is coming, it's been here for a while, but now it's show time. Will we survive? UP FOR ADOPTION-
1. Chapter 1

Anchorless

Chapter one

Canvas shoes slapped against the cobblestones, causing little droplets of water to splash into the air and shimmer like pearls in the bright moonlight as their wearer carelessly ran through a puddle. The night was so soundless it blotted out everything else. There should be the murmur of late night traffic, the hooting of owls, the occasional sound of running water from the desolate buildings; but the only thing Italy could hear was his own rugged breath and the weird sound of his painfully thin shoes echoing slightly.

It frightened him.

Nothing was familiar about this place.

Yet somehow he knew where he was running: he knew that the pathway was cracked and without so much as glancing down he nimbly jumped over it, he knew that at the next intersection he needed to take a left because the right would lead to a dead end and a bakery, with a fire hydrant covered in chipped bright red paint, and, scariest of all he knew that he couldn't stop running, that to do so would be dangerous- fatal even. So he ran on blindly.

He flew over the broken, sad stones, feet hardly ever touching the ground, tearing across at a speed that Usain Bolt would envy, and at an equally ludicrous speed his mind whirled over possibilities of where he was, why he was where he was, how he had gotten there, why the strange, alien place was so familiar, just what he was running from, why whatever was after him was after him, whether what he was running from was actually after him, if what he was running from was an actual _thing_ and more importantly- why. Why he was here and not curled up taking a siesta or hanging out with his brother.

The window was smashed, from the outside by the way the glass had fallen. With a newfound calmness that chilled the part of his mind he still had complete control over, Italy paced over to the house with a short veranda that he had just stopped short in front of. He moved a plant pot filled with dying bluebells, picked up a silver key that was lying under it and slipped it into the door lock.

Dying bluebells, dying bluebells… Italy knew that should mean something to him. It set off just the faintest of alarm bells, but it wasn't enough to stop him from entering the house. Nothing was. Disregarding the jagged pieces of glass scattered wildly around where the window was once placed, the house was neatly kept; there were no empty

mugs on the table, no dishes in the sink waiting patiently to be polished clean and be put back under the counter by careful hands. The chairs were pushed in, mop and broom in the closet. The only sign that someone lived here was the thick, half filled art book placed on the middle of the table accompanied by a single HB grey lead, a coffee mug filled with coloured pencils and markers and a small pile of pencil shavings. Italy couldn't bring himself to look at the drawings.

Rain began to fall, _again_, Italy thought. He turned away from the table, catching the sight of the smears of water gathering on the window, blurring the view of smoky street lights and the trees of the nearby park. The pitter-patter increased and grew louder, accentuating the nation's loneliness and confusion.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

_All warfare is based on deception._

Soon enough the initial panic of having no recollection of his whereabouts died down to a distant nagging feeling in the pit of Italy's stomach. The back of his head was sore and pleading for something to rest it on, but he couldn't settle down. Pacing with insomnia he locked all the doors of the house, trying to ignore the fact someone could probably get in undetected just by climbing through the smashed window.

Italy drew in a deep, shaky breath. He didn't like all this uncertainty, waiting for something to happen without knowing what it could be; although at least the house had food, he had managed to find some extremely thin pasta buried in the pantry past some rice and a couple mountains of curry powder. Whoever once owned this house must have really liked curry.  
Key word: once; it was clear that the occupant of this house would not be returning anytime soon- even if they were alive.

_Why did he just think that last part?_

The food Italy had discovered was all at least three months past its use-by date, the only reason he felt brave enough to eat the pasta was because pasta didn't go off, like ever, hence why it was his favourite food. The thought of food made him hungry again, and not for that painfully thin stuff he found that he felt that shouldn't be known under the name 'pasta', but for the food of his home, his national food. Massaging his head he sat down with his bowl of look-alike pasta, and turned on the 40cm TV in hopes of finding a hint about where he was.

Screeching static filled the air. Shocked into stillness, Italy just let the waves of pain pound into his head for a few moments, then springing up, hurriedly ripped the power plug out of the wall socket. The wailing continued, although softer and it took Italy a few moments to realise that it was his ears ringing and not some type of electronic device.

An unsightly array of ramen lay on the floor from when Italy had spilt it from leaping up, Italy just stared at it. Slowly he slumped to the ground, fully intending to pick the food up, but his sight blurred, he could taste saltwater in his mouth- but it was only once he pressed his head against the soft, carpeted ground and felt dampness against his cheek that he realised he was crying.

A single black raven with bright golden eyes that glinted greedily landed outside the door, cocking its head to the side it saw something glint silver in the bright moonlight. Curiously the black, majestic, albeit a bit shabby bird hobbled over to the mysterious object and it flew away with the key.

There are many things in life we underestimate; one of them is the extreme psychological impacts that being truly alone can have. Not just lonely, but having absolutely no-one to give a damn about you, for there to not be anyone who might even want you just to manipulate and control. It leaves you with sorrow so intense you can't feel anything; all you can do is cry, cry for yourself and all that could have been and pray to whatever good God that may look down with love and pity that someday, someone will break through the disguise before you destroy yourself. That someday you may have something worth holding on for.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

_It's hard to say what's needed to be said when there is nothing to say._

There are many things in life that can't be explained, there is always the eternal 'why?' question. Why do things work out the way they do? Is there any stopping it? How can it be stopped?

It's scary to consider that it can't be stopped. To think that it's 'meant to be'; that an almighty force has decided on what course the world shall take. Of course, if this is true, we can hold no complaints about it, right?

A ball hit the ground. It rolled, pulled downhill by humanity's old, strange friend -gravity. The brightly coloured sphere bounced lightly as it continued to roll down a series of steps. A pair of hands grasped it, as a young boy bent down and inspected the vivid colours; red, white, green.

Something tugged at his mind.

Italy picked the thing up. "Excuse me," he called out, with no control over his younger dream self, to the boy who's fingers the plaything had slipped from. "You dropped this."

The boy turned around confused, after all, no-one else ever came here, no-one really cared to meet the introverted island nation, "Um, who are you?"

My name is Italy, Italy Veniciano. My grandfather was the great Roman Empire. The Roman Empire fell, Grandpapa died. This much I am certain about.

I wonder what it's like to die. I have seen death so many times, it's always so incredibly sad. Now, however, I can't help thinking that the sad part of dying is living. When a force far stronger than you is calling your soul to be elsewhere... Maybe the true dying is done up here where we breathe… and maybe, just maybe, death is something we ought to wait with patient excitement for. Just maybe. This is a thought that enters my head with a sense of beautiful peace.

There's a person I can't quite remember, and I do so desperately wish to remember. It was someone of incredible importance to me. Someone I held more dear than anyone else in this world. I miss him. All I know is that it's a 'him' –and that doesn't creep me out or worry me at all, because deep inside I know loving this person is just so… so right- that he has black hair. And that is all I'm completely sure about at the moment. Sounds pathetic doesn't it? I can remember other things but they're only snippets- they feel as though they may only be wishful thinking; he's quiet, and really quiet strong, but doesn't often show it unless in a serious fight. I think. He likes the cherry blossoms- I used to come to his house and we would sit for hours peacefully, enjoying each other's company, watching the petals slowly fall.


	4. Chapter 4

Running.

Running.

There's nothing left; for much is gone.

""

Weary sunlight struggled to make it through the clouds. Not storm clouds.

Clouds of trouble.

Few survivors stumbled in the wreckage of pure destruction; wails of unparalleled grief could be heard… the voice of a mother who has lost everything, and then her world.

""

Knees going completely weak, unable to support his own weight, Japan sunk to the ground –chest heaving and hurling.

He vomited up water. Eyes swimming in tears, throat burning. Still more came.

Coughing was like liquid fire was being trickled down his throat, but still he did, he had to if it would rid of the vileness in his system. Nose running, Japan was dimly aware that he was crying. Blobs of seawater splattering from his eyes to gather with the rest of the puddle on the floor, the godforsaken puddle that was now tinged red from Japan's dying eye sight.

Destruction upon destruction. If you saw it yourself, you'd wish it came onto you. That you had been destroyed, rather than know that there was nothing you could do for these souls.

""

_There's nothing left to ask yourself_

_Where is my mind?_

_Where is my mind?_

""

Filled with the dying spirit of his people, Japan knew nobody was coming, no-one was going to save him –and why should they?

""

"Italy, where are you?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five

And why should they?

_Let us give hears to silence, to everything and how it all falls apart. Nothing ever stays the exactly the same; change is a brutal matter._

And why should someone rise to the beat of the war drums when they can run away with their family- with all they hold dear… and have a happy life elsewhere.

Scary things… so many scary things… Death. Famine… War. Destruction.

Yet I always come back for more.

""

"Hey… whadaya find scary, Japan?"

"…"

"Tell me." Quiet urging

"… Many things."

"Such as…?"

"…"

"Come on."

"What about you?"

"Hmmm… Those people my brother let's stay at our place, I suppose. They're pretty scary.

"Huh."

"… War's pretty damn scary. It's a necessity, I know that, but I don't even have my home sorted out."

"…"

"…"

"Tsunamis. They are the most terrible thing I have seen."

"…"

"Like the sea was avenging for what man had done to it. When the earth itself turns on me."

"…"

"…"

""

_There's no beauty in pain, no honour in laying yourself down for another's sake. _

_Why die on our feet, struggling not to live on our knees, when we can live on our feet and never die on our knees._

""

To see the cherry blossoms.

""

_Really, America. You're not that scary._


End file.
